


All You Gotta Do Is Say My Name

by crimsonseekers



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Beetlejuice AU, Character Death, Demons, Gen, Ghosts, Going to Hell, Loss of Parent(s), One-sided Marriage of Convenience, Repressed emotional issues and refusing to properly process trauma: the fic, Starscream hasn't talked to anyone in millennia and doesn't know how to deal with people anymore, Suicidal Thoughts, Talking To Dead People
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24289600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonseekers/pseuds/crimsonseekers
Summary: "Say my name, three times, and I can doanythingyou want.""But I don't know your name.""Well, I can't say it.""How about a game of charades?"Or,the Starscream is Beetlejuice AU no one asked for.
Relationships: Chromia/Windblade, Drift | Deadlock/Optimus Prime, Hot Rod & Starscream (Transformers)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 33





	All You Gotta Do Is Say My Name

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, welcome, welcome!
> 
> A few notes on this AU before we begin:
> 
> If you're primarily familiar with the Beetlejuice 1988 movie, then this AU will be following a different plot, with some new ideas and few darker takes on some plot points.
> 
> If you're primarily familiar with the Beetlejuice Broadway musical, then congratulations! You pretty much know this plot beat for beat, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!
> 
> If you're not familiar with Beetlejuice in any fashion, then I really don't have anything to say to prepare you for this.
> 
> Enjoy!

“In times like these, we have no words,” the pastor spoke forlornly, “we only have each other. Today, we come together to mourn the passing of Elita-1 of Iacon, devoted conjunx of Optimus, beloved mother to Hot Rod. Scripture tells us, ‘Sorrow not, for we do not walk alone.’”

Hot Rod clenched his fists, the umbrella and crystals in his grasp making worrying sounds under the pressure. The patter of droplets against the protective covering were the only sound he could hear apart from the blessings of the pastor, the graveyard otherwise silent. It wasn’t the rainy season yet, but the shower above them was certainly a reminder that it was close.

A heavy hand laid upon his shoulder, and Hot Rod looked up into the optics of his sire, optics blank and face unreadable underneath his mask. He glanced away and shrugged his spoiler. Optimus’ hand fell off at the movement.

Hot Rod’s vents rattled slightly as he tried to calm himself, flicking his optics to look at the nondescript grey casket. After a moment, he managed to uproot himself from his place and slowly walk forward, his pedes sinking slightly into the acid-soaked ground with each step he took. He hunched his shoulders, keeping his sight solely focused on the path between his black-painted pedes and the casket, stares of the mourners boring holes through his plating.

They were whispering. He could hear the ruffling of mourning cloaks as they shifted, raising their hands to whisper about him. It was fine. Nothing he hadn’t been hearing for the past week.

_“Poor mechling… losing a carrier is never easy, much less at his age.”_

_“He and Elita were close - such a shame to lose one as bright as her so early in her life.”_

He ignored them, keeping himself fixated on the casket in front of him. It took only a few moments to carry himself from where he stood next to Optimus to the metal box that held his carrier’s remains.

Remains.

Right.

He took another moment to calm himself - he didn’t want the pitying stares to increase if he were to start bawling right then and there. He couldn’t stop the tremble of his hand as he laid the first white flower crystal atop the casket. The rain burned his hand as it left the covering of his umbrella.

She was gone. His mom was dead.

He could feel his sire’s steps trembling through the ground before he could feel the faintest brush of his EM field wavering behind him - close enough to sense, far enough to be blank.

The acid rain falling from the sky crackled as the flash of the first bolt of lightning struck through the air and burned with an acrid smell, the roar of the thunder breaking the silence not long after.

Hot Rod’s vents rattled.

It wasn’t season for the rains yet, but it might as well have been. It burned either way.

* * *

Starscream huffed, checking the scrap of paper in his hand yet again.

_8 kliks_

After vorn upon vorn of waiting for this opportunity, he wasn’t about to blow because of his own impatience. Starscream huffed, slipping the scrap of paper back into his subspace - 8 kliks, he just had to wait 8 kliks more and those lovebirds he’d been scoping out for the past vorn would finally be dead, and he could set his plan into action at long last.

A living mecha - three times.

He checked the card relaying the parameters of his curse instinctively - he’d come that far in his plan, and he wasn’t about to allow some impulsive rule change by that bastard ruin everything for him.

 _Starscream, Starscream, Starscream_ remained written in harsh glyphs.

He smirked. Perfect, Starscream thought as footsteps approached the front door of the house he watched. It was almost time for the show.

“Windblade?” the blue grounder called as she entered. “I’m home!”

“Chromia,” Windblade greeted fondly as she strode into the room and towards her conjunx, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Was there traffic on the bridge? You’re a bit later than usual.”

Chromia sighed exhaustedly but allowed a contented smile to dance across her lips as their fields twined together. “Partially - I got stuck at every red light I could possibly get.”

Starscream groaned at their conversation, phasing through them on his quest to find somewhere to wait until they died - it wasn’t as if anything they talked about was _interesting._ The two of them were the most boring mecha he’d ever tried to haunt.

“I also decided to drop by Soundwave’s shop to see if I could get a bit more solder to finish off my project, but Rumble told me they were out of stock, and you know I can’t trust him-”

“Smart move,” Windblade agreed with a smile.

“-so I checked with Laserbeak, who got Ravage to look in the back room, so guess who can finish off the cradle!” Chromia cheered.

Starscream cycled his optics. He didn’t get what the whole deal was - life’s just a bunch of cassettes, and then you die. Big whoop.

Windblade laughed, kissing her delightedly. “You, I’m presuming?” The moment was cut short by the shrill ring of the home commline. Windblade sighed, pulling herself away and heading into the office. “I’ll get it.”

Starscream snorted as he threw himself onto the couch, settling in for a wait. Oh, they were _both_ going to get it.

Chromia smiled fondly after her partner but continued into the living room regardless.

A long, protracted groaning noise, however, halted her steps briefly. She glanced down at her pedes and huffed, bouncing her weight slightly and watching the floorboards creak and bob up and down. Something to fix later, then. That’s what they got for buying such an old house.

She sighed, setting the spool of solder next to the half-assembled crib sitting in the corner of their living room. She would finish it soon. It was a fun project to fill in some of her time - perhaps she could try again with another.

Chromia made a soft, amused sound to herself, running a hand along one of the endboards. Maybe-

“That was Jazz calling,” Windblade announced as she came back. Chromia tilted her head up at her, snapped from her musings.

“I’ll tell him that I can have this done before the sparkling gets here,” she assured.

“They had it yesterday,” Windblade said. Chromia let her shoulders drop slightly at the news, before letting a reassuring smile cross her face.

“There’s no rush, then.”

Her conjunx gave a weak grin in return before it slid off her face, wings twitching slightly.

Chromia sighed, quickly crossing the room to take Windblade’s hand. “Dance with me.”

“What?” Windblade asked, but fell easily into the small steps Chromia led her through across their living room regardless.

“You think better when you move,” Chromia said, smiling down at Windblade fondly, “and I don’t think the gym down the street is going to be open for much longer. You have something on your mind, don’t you?”

Windblade sighed, her wings sagging downward slightly as she tilted forward to lean her forehead against Chromia’s collar. Chromia hummed lightly, resting her chin on the back of her partner’s helm. “Do you think that maybe we should try for a sparkling?” she asked softly after a moment.

Chromia tensed. “Windblade, sweetspark-“

“I know, I know,” she muttered. “I shouldn’t let what other people do and say get to me like this.”

“If you really want a sparkling,” Chromia started, slowing her steps to simply sway in place with Windblade, “then I’m ready whenever you are.”

“And what if I never am?” Chromia opened her mouth to respond but was quickly cut off as Windblade lifted her head with a soft, sad smile and ruffled her wings back into a higher position. “Never mind,” she said. “It’s a little silly, anyway. Let’s dance faster, shall we?”

“As my lady wishes,” Chromia smiled, kissing her knuckles indulgently. “We’re talking about this later, though. Don’t think you can avoid me forever.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Windblade bounced on her pedes, grinning. “Come on, where’s that energy you had at our ceremony?”

“Oh, is that how we’re doing this?” Chromia laughed, spinning Windblade out. “You still have enough spring in your step to jump like you used to?”

“Calling me old, dearie?”

“Just as radiant as the day we met, don’t worry.” Windblade giggled. “We just haven’t danced together in a while, that’s all.”

Chromia laughed as Windblade leaped into her arms, twirling her around delightedly.

_Crack-_

They froze.

“What was that?” Windblade asked suddenly.

Chromia glanced down, gripping her conjunx tighter as she saw the floor splinter and crack beneath them, suddenly cursing her disregard of the creaky floorboards and-

They were _falling._

Starscream watched disinterestedly as the floor gave out beneath the couple. Not exactly the way he had expected them to go - maybe a gas leak or a break in (those certainly would have been a blast to watch happen). But, he supposed, as long as they were dead he could work with it.

He sat up off the couch, tossing the cocktail he’d been sipping on as he waited over his shoulder, not particularly caring whether it crashed into something before it disappeared from the plane. Glancing down through the hole the floor, he snorted. Yeah, those two were definitely dead.

Snapping his hand out, he caught the book falling from above before it could land and wake the newly-deads.

He glanced at the cover and cycled his optics. _The Handbook for the Recently Deceased._ Back before he’d been banished from the Netherworld, he’d been handing those out to newly-deads left and right as they dropped like stones during the Primal Wars and various other conflicts. It was adorable that they still hadn’t upgraded from the disgustingly organic paper to something more durable, like a datapad.

Well, it was certainly less work for himself he mused, snapping his fingers to light a fire as he simultaneously unblocked the fireplace. Mecha were so _paranoid_ about flames in modern times.

He flipped open the cover, scanning the first page. _Chapter One: The Netherworld. All ghosts should proceed directly to the Netherworld-_ nope. He snorted and shut the book with a _thud._

Tossing the book into the flames, the magic surrounding the tome snapped with a wail as the edges of its pages blackened and curled. It was almost like a sad puppet show.

“Windblade, are you alright?” Chromia called worriedly as they slowly began clambering out of the hole. Starscream simply ducked behind the couch to wait. Newly-deads could be so _emotional,_ it was best to let them figure it out on their own.

Windblade groaned, heaving herself back up and shakily standing up alongside Chromia. “That was some fall,” Chromia muttered. “I didn’t think it was that weak, are you alright?” she asked again, moving to embrace Windblade before they both flinched back at the contact.

“You’re absolutely _freezing,”_ Windblade exclaimed, though Chromia found it easy to say the same of her, from the way she was shivering. “I’ll start the heater,” she decided, moving past Chromia, “and-” She paused, staring at the flickering flames in the fireplace. Her sudden stop caught Chromia’s attention, who turned and was quickly giving a puzzled look at the flames herself. “I don’t remember making a fire…” Windblade murmured. “Didn’t the real estate agent say that the chimney was blocked when we bought this place?”

“I’m not sure - it can’t have been, we’d smell the smoke if it were.”

“But I don’t remember starting a fire… It’s not hot, I don’t get it,” Windblade muttered, holding her hands close to the flickering flames.

“Maybe I should call emergency services,” Chromia said, pacing worriedly. “You might have hit your head - it was a rough fall, we’re lucky we weren’t hurt - it was scary wasn’t it?” she laughed awkwardly, pausing and glancing down the hole they had just crawled out of. “I saw my life flash before my eyes, started asking myself the big questions, like-” she choked on her words, vocalizer clicking. Windblade glanced at her, before hurrying to her side with concern. “Why are our frames still in the basement?”

“What?” Windblade leaned over her shoulder, barely catching a glance of two exact copies of themselves, laying still and blank on the basement floor, a pool of congealed energon surrounding them. She retched. “I don’t think we survived that fall,” she whispered, panicked.

_“Oh, god.”_

“There’s still so much I wanted to do,” Windblade murmured, her shoulders shaking as the reality of their situation came upon them. Chromia settled beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her in close to her side comfortingly.

“I know, me too,” she whispered. “But hey, we’re still together.” She squeezed Windblade’s hand. “We’re still in our house, and all of our stuff is still here.” Chromia vented, attempting to steady herself as Windblade tucked herself closer. “Let’s say we are - _dead._ That’s bad-” Windblade hiccupped, and she began to tremble again, “-but maybe nothing has to change.”

“Hello,” a grating voice purred from behind them. They spun around, snapped out of their stupor to stare at the polished seeker leaning casually against their couch. Starscream smirked and held his hands up in an attempt to look less threatening - though going by the newly-deads’ panicked glances, showing off his claws with the action probably didn’t help. “Do not be afraid. You,” he began, deciding to get straight to the point, “are dead. _I_ am also dead. Maybe we can help each other.”

The two ghosts were frozen, so Starscream simply cycled his optics and pushed himself away from the couch, approaching them with sharp, confident steps, which seemed to _finally_ generate a reaction from them.

Granted, screaming and running from him wasn’t exactly the reaction he was going for, but at least they weren’t going into shock. However, he’d waited long enough, and didn’t have the patience for their antics.

Waving his hand, an invisible force threw Chromia and Windblade into the couch he’d been leaning on just a moment prior, and another quick gesture bound them to their seats.

“Listen up,” Starscream stated, snapping to produce a large board behind himself and a marker in his hand. “Since you newly-deads seem to be having a hard time processing this situation, I’m going to explain this to you, but only once, so pay attention.” Turning to look at the board without waiting for a reaction from the frightened ghosts stuck to the couch behind him, he began to draw. “This is you,” he started, drawing two rudimentary stick figures. “You are dead.” He slashed the marker across the figures. “Got that so far?”

Windblade and Chromia nodded, not seeming to trust their vocalizers.

“Verbal answers, if you knocked something loose and are currently experiencing loss of motor control or something I’d rather not waste my time here.”

“Yes,” Windblade answered quietly after a moment.

“Good. Now, you're officially ghosts on the whole ‘other side’ thing mortals like to talk about so much, and I’m here to be your guide and ease your transition. We clear?”

“Yeah.”

“Now, here’s the good news: you two died in your own house, meaning you have some clout and get to stick around!” His proclamation was accompanied by a rough sketch of a house and some confetti before Starscream determined he was bored of the method and simply banished the board, turning to face Chromia and Windblade. “Congratulations. Lucky for you two, I happened to be in the area and dropped by when I sensed your deaths and can help you out a bit.”

“Help us?” Chromia asked confusedly. “How?”

“Shh,” Starscream hushed. “I’m talking.” Chromia glared but kept her mouth shut. He smirked and continued. “Now you two seem like nice people - painfully boring, but nice. I think we’ll work wonderfully together, it’s so lucky that I just happened to be here to help give you control of your spark through the whole ‘being dead’ thing. Understand?”

Chromia sighed, “I think so? We’re dead, we get to stay in our house, you’re here to help us.”

“I’m not really sure of the point of this, though,” Windblade mused.

Starscream let his head loll backward for a moment in exasperation. Newly-deads, they always had so many _questions._ “Listen, if I let you off that couch, will you promise to _not_ run off screaming again? The first time was annoying and already tested my patience.”

Chromia glanced at Windblade who simply shrugged - it wasn’t like there was much else they could possibly do. “Alright.”

“Fantastic!” Starscream crowed, swooping in and grabbing them right off the couch, spinning them around even as they struggled to escape his grip.

“Put us down!” Chromia snapped after several seconds of twirling, at which point they were both promptly dropped on the floor.

“Apologies,” Starscream purred, though his remorse seemed especially insincere at the grin on his face. “I’ve just been waiting for you two to die for _so_ long, and now you’re finally here! I think we’re gonna make _such_ a great team, don’t you?”

“I’m sorry and don’t mean offense, mister,” Windblade began, “but you give me the creeps.”

“Well, good for you,” Starscream said dismissively. “Alright, we don’t have a lot of time,” he said suddenly switching to a more serious attitude, “so if we’re gonna do this, you two need to hire me _right_ now.”

“Hire you for what?” Chromia asked, confused by the sudden turn of the conversation.

“To teach you to _scare.”_

“Scare?” Windblade tilted her head, squinting at Starscream as if it would clear up the situation. “Scare who?”

Starscream smirked, glancing over their shoulders. “The people who just bought your house.”

“What?” Windblade asked, spinning around in time with Chromia to watch in shock as movers filtered into the house. “But how? We just died!”

Starscream laughed as he dragged the two of them away from the workers. “Yeah, if you’re not paying attention, time moves differently when you’re dead, and boy, does it move.”

Chromia and Windblade seemed to not be listening, jerking themselves out of Starscream’s grip as pictures and various memorabilia began getting picked up and moved out.

“Hey, stop that!” Chromia shouted at a bot as they began dragging her half-finished cradle out the door.

“Yeah, you tell ‘em,” Starscream called from the side.

“Put that down!” Windblade cried as a crate of her datapads was carried away.

“Get in there, Windblade, show ‘em who’s boss!”

“Stop moving things!”

“You’re stealing, you thieves!”

Chromia froze as her hand phased through one of the bots as she tried to grab his arm. Windblade paused at the sudden lack of action from her conjunx, who slowly turned her head to face Starscream. “They can’t see us, can they?”

Starscream laughed, leaning against the wall. “Keen observation, Chromia.” He stalked towards them, shoving them onto their - no, a _different_ couch. Most of the furniture in the room had been replaced in the few scant moments they’d been distracted, however, workers still milled about nonetheless. “Hey,” Starscream called, snapping his fingers. “Optics on me. I’ll keep time from running you over like a triple changer again, don’t worry about it. Now, the living cannot see the dead. We are invisible.” He threw himself onto the couch, not seeming to particularly care that the particular seat he’d chosen (Chromia) seemed to be suffocating underneath the breadth of his wings.

“And the living,” he continued, “most of them are so worried about their stupid little lives that most of them never notice _anything_ strange or unusual unless you make them, and that’s why _you_ need _me.”_

Chromia finally succeeded in shoving Starscream off of her, and he sprawled on the floor, not seeming particularly affected by the action as she asked, “You’re gonna help us?”

“For a price,” Starscream said off-handedly. “Itty-bitty little price. More of a favor, really.”

“Excuse me,” Windblade interrupted, holding a hand to her forehead as she clicked her optics off. Chromia rubbed her back comfortingly as she talked. “This is all happening _very_ fast - I mean, we _just_ died, and now _you’re_ here, and _they’re_ here, and-”

“Windblade, Windblade, Windblade,” Starscream cooed, pushing himself back to his pedes again. “I get it, I _get_ it - but the two of you are _special!”_ he said, gesticulating to emphasize his point. “You died _together!_ That never happens!” He paused, and corrected himself. “Unless, of course, it’s a murder-suicide, which makes for a _very_ awkward eternity. So!” he continued before either of them could get a word in edgewise. “Take a vent - metaphorically, you don’t really need to do all that stuff anymore - and just remember-”

He was interrupted by a crash and the sound of shattering glass. Chromia and Windblade whipped their heads around to spot one of the workers picking up the shattered frame containing the picture of themselves at the altar at their conjunx ceremony.

While their sparks, Starscream supposed, had dissipated and dispersed when they died, that didn’t really stop them from feeling a wave of spark-deep anger fill themselves.

“Sorry,” the worker who’d knocked the photo over called.

“Don’t worry about it,” one of the overseers reassured distractedly. “The boss wants everything taken to the dump, anyway, it doesn’t really matter.”

“The dump?” Chromia hissed, standing up from the couch. “Did they just say the dump?”

“They said the dump,” Starscream confirmed, holding a hand to his face to cover his smirk - everything was playing _wonderfully_ to his favor.

“They can’t take that to the dump!”

“Oh, they’re taking it to the dump,” Starscream called. “And without me, they’re going to do that to _everything.”_

Chromia and Windblade flinched at the sound of the garbage truck outside their house, sharing an unsteady but determined look before they turned back to Starscream.

“You’re hired,” Windblade declared.

“Tell us what to do,” Chromia agreed, an equally grim set to her face.

“Great choice!” Starscream cheered. “You won’t regret this! You want your house back?”

_“Yes.”_

“Let’s get it!” Starscream chirped, ushering them towards the staircase. “Being dead has its perks, all you gotta do is listen to me and you’ll get the hang of them. Once you do, trust me, you’ll be flying through the whole ‘being dead’ thing like pros.” He smirked. “Now, get in the attic. It’s time for class.”

* * *

“Mmm, yes!” Drift called. “There’s _very_ good energy in this place!” He smiled as he walked slowly around the living room.

“I’m glad you like it,” Optimus said as he rolled a carpet over the floor, hiding the noticeable color discrepancy between the old and new boards. “It was a pretty big risk buying this place. It was beyond run down - the floors were ready to give out and _had_ given out before I had everything refurbished. It’s hard to believe people _actually_ lived here.”

“Don’t worry, Optimus,” Drift said reassuringly. “If we make it look great, no one will know it’s crushingly insecure and ready to break down at any given moment!”

Optimus smiled bemusedly, allowing his mask to snap back as he worked. “That’s an interesting way of putting it, Drift, but I appreciate your enthusiasm, nonetheless. We have two days to get this house ready before Swindle gets here, and it needs to be a flagship model home for a new gated community.” He sighed. “If I can just get Swindle on board, then everything should go smoothly.”

Drift frowned, quickly crossing the room and pulled Optimus away from his work. “You’re under so much stress, you need to _relax,”_ he declared, pushing Optimus to sit on one of the new loveseats, perching on the convoy’s lap himself to ensure he didn’t move. “It’s like my mentor Wing always said, it doesn’t matter if you think the cube is half-full or half-empty, just know that it’s _refillable.”_ And he punctuated his statement by pecking Optimus on the cheek.

“Thank you, Drift,” Optimus murmured. “But we can’t stay like this,” he said, standing up, forcing Drift to slide off his lap. “What if Hot Rod were to come in?”

“Optimus,” Drift began, “maybe we should just _tell_ him about us-”

“No,” Optimus interrupted. “He’s young, and he’s still having trouble - he doesn’t quite have the resilience that comes with age, yet. He needs someone to help him get past all this, which is why you’re here - to be his life coach.”

“I’m trying my best,” Drift reassured with a tired smile. “It’s slow going, though.”

“Hey, Sire,” Hot Rod’s flat voice interrupted. Optimus and Drift spun around, not having heard the mechling’s entrance. “Does this couch make me look dead?” he asked, limply holding crystals likely taken from the front garden and holding them to his chest plates as he laid still on the couch, optics offline.

Optimus sighed. “Hot Rod, I’m not going to answer a question like that.”

“Hot Rod,” Drift cooed, a concerned tone to his voice as he crouched by the younger’s side. “Please, we talked about this. Remember what I said?”

Hot Rod groaned, onlining his optics and swinging his legs to propel himself into a standing position from where he laid on the couch. “Yeah,” he said tiredly. “You were like ‘Sadness is like ugly holiday paints - it’s alright at the solstice but the rest of the vorn, you gotta put 'em away.’”

“That’s not what I said,” Drift sighed. “I’m confident that I quoted my mentor Wing and said that life has a funny way of teaching us - it will create deep sadness so that we know how to truly understand-”

Hot Rod cycled his optics and walked past Drift and up to Optimus. “Sire, how long are we staying here?”

Optimus glanced at Drift, who simply shrugged. “Hot Rod - after everything we’ve been through this last vorn,” he began awkwardly, “I was just thinking that we could both use a fresh start, so I’m selling our house in Iacon, and we’re going to live here from now on.”

 _“What?”_ Hot Rod asked disbelievingly before grabbing Optimus’ arm and tugging on it as if it were to make a difference. “Sire, no, you _can’t do that,_ Dead Mom loved our house-”

“‘Dead Mom’?” Optimus asked. Hot Rod paused, glaring at the ground. “Hot Rod-”

“You never want to talk about her,” he muttered.

“That’s because I’m trying to-” he stuttered, gesturing with his hands uselessly before sending a pleading look at Drift, who swiftly intervened.

“We’re just saying that maybe this is a step forward - towards moving on and-”

 _“NO!”_ Hot Rod snapped, glaring at Drift as he flinched back in surprise. He turned back to Optimus, who still looked lost at the situation. “Sire, _please,”_ he whispered. “Our whole life is in that house.” Optimus sent yet another pleading look at Drift, prompting Hot Rod to flip their positions, forcing him to have his back to Drift. “Hey,” Hot Rod continued, holding his sire’s hands in his own and muttered nostalgically, “don’t you remember when we moved in?”

Optimus offlined his optics as Hot Rod spoke.

“It was all run down and horrible, and we didn’t know how we were gonna get through it? And then Mom said, ‘Let’s clean up.’” Optimus onlined his optics dimly, looking down at Hot Rod with a soft look. “She made us sing that organic song she loved so much - remember it?” Hot Rod moved Optimus’ arms slightly as he sang as if trying to convince him to dance. _“Shake, shake, shake, señora. Shake your body-”_

“Hot Rod,” Optimus interrupted, jerking his hands away and averting his optics, “you’ve moped around for quartexes, painted in black and _obsessing_ about death.”

Hot Rod gave him a dry look in turn. “I’m in mourning.”

“Yes,” Optimus agreed reluctantly, before forcing a smile onto his face. “But we have to move forward!” he declared. “All of us!” He redirected and focused his attention on the movers as they entered the living room, a new coffee table held between them. “Keep it coming, gentlemecha,” he said encouragingly, turning back to face Drift and Hot Rod. “Swindle is going to be here for dinner in two days - two days to make this a model home, with a model family inside.” He sighed, and headed for the stairs, briefly turning to look at his creation. “Hot Rod - I know you won’t let me down.” And disappeared to the second floor.

“Yeah,” Hot Rod said flatly. “It’d be terrible if we all let each other down.”

Drift clicked and rebooted his vocalizer awkwardly, turning to Hot Rod with a forced grin. “Well, this is exciting!” he chirped. “We have a dinner to plan, to redecorate-”

“Hey, Drift,” Hot Rod interrupted, slithering up to the Spectralist's side with a soft smile on his face. “Knock, knock.”

“Oh,” Drift rebooted his optics, and suddenly his grin became much more real. “Oh, okay! Who’s there?”

“I don’t know,” Hot Rod chuckled. “You have to open the door to find out.”

“But-” Drift said stiltedly, “that’s not how knock knock jokes work?”

“Oh.” Hot Rod let his spoiler droop, letting a definite sense of _rejection / disappointment / depression_ pour into his field. He turned away, ducking his head. “I guess you’ll never know, then.”

“Wait, no,” Drift said, and Hot Rod had to stop a smirk from spreading across his face at the light feeling of panic he felt zip through the EM field brushing against his. “Um, _creeaaak-”_

 **_“AHHHHHH!”_ ** Hot Rod howled, spinning around to yell directly into his face.

Drift shrieked and leaped back, stumbling into the couch. “Hot Rod, you can’t do that!” he cried, taking a few vents to calm himself and force a smile back onto his face. “Come on, I’m sure you’ll feel better after-”

_“Knock knock.”_

“Nope,” Drift declared, turning around and striding out of the room. “I get when I’m not wanted.”

Hot Rod sighed as Drift left, tilting his head back and offlining his optics. “I’m alone,” he said, “I am utterly alone.” He onlined his optics and smiled at the ceiling, giving brief finger guns upwards. “Except for you, Dead Mom.”

He sighed, letting his shoulders drop as he turned to the boxes stacked around the living room he found himself in, dragging his fingers along them. “Hey, Dead Mom,” he murmured as he found the box of old records - imports from an organic world that his mother had adored. “I need a little help - and yeah, I get that I’m probably talking to myself, and look like a crazy person, but talking to you is probably the _only_ good idea Drift’s pitched since Sire's hired him.” He huffed, plopping the box on the new coffee table, flicking through them.

“I gotta ask,” Hot Rod murmured, resting his forehead against the cool edge of the table, “are you really in the ground? It doesn’t feel like you are - I feel you everywhere.” He tilted his head back, smiling shakily at the ceiling. “Are you here, Dead Mom?”

Silence.

Hot Rod groaned, falling backward to flop on his back, resting an arm across his optics. “Yeah, that’s about the response I was expecting. Can’t blame me for trying, though, can you?” He let his arm fall back to his side to stare blankly at the ceiling, a frown tugging at his lips. “But that’s not what I need your help on. It’s just-” He sighed, offlining his optics again. “I get that I’ve been completely broken since you left - half my spark signature is gone, I guess. But I feel like all Sire does is stare at me and tell me to hurry up and stop being sad,” he muttered, sitting up and twiddling his fingers in his lap. “He doesn’t want to talk about you, and I think he’s trying to pretend you never existed, and trying to make _me_ forget about you too.”

Hot Rod huffed standing up and beginning to pace, kicking at the floorboards and carpet in a vain attempt to dispel his pent up energy. “He’s in denial, that’s what I say,” he muttered angrily. _“‘We have to keep moving forward! Blah blah blah-’_ Yeah, right. He’s pretending to be perfect, and now he wants me to play along, and I just - _ugh!”_ Hot Rod banged his head against the wall, grumbling at the sharp pain. “We’ve been such a total and complete _mess_ since you’ve been gone.”

Hot Rod sighed, throwing himself onto the couch to dig through the record box, smiling when his fingers finally brushed the rough edges of an old printed photo book. “Life was great when you were here, Dead Mom,” he said, flipping through the torn and curled pages, dragging his fingers along family - old family photos. His vocalizer clicked, and as he tried to continue speaking, his voice croaked with static. “Nothing makes sense, jokes aren’t funny, and nobody _sees_ me. Nothing fits anymore,” he choked out, hugging the old album closer to his chest plates.

“Is this it, now that you’re gone?” he asked. “Are you even listening to me? _Please,_ Dead Mom, I just want to know I’m not going crazy for feeling like this - give me something to believe in I can’t keep doing this.” He gave the ceiling another weak smile. “Here’s an idea: you come to get me, and we go somewhere our sparks can just run around forever, and I don’t have to stick around in this hell hole. That sounds pretty good to me, right?”

Silence.

Hot Rod sighed, sagging further into the couch. “Sire’s moving forward, but he didn’t lose a mom,” he muttered sullenly. “Please, Mom,” he said quietly. “Just send me a sign - it can be anything. A bird, a swarm of scraplets, a lightning strike.”

No response.

Again.

Hot Rod hiccupped, turning his head to bury his face into the arm of the stiff leather couch. His vents rattled, and he simply laid there, trying vainly to calm himself before sliding off the couch limply, landing on the floor in a sort of puddle as he returned his gaze to the ceiling.

“I know what you’d say right now,” he croaked. “‘If the situation’s not changing on its own, you _make_ it change.’” Hot Rod giggled to himself. “I’ll try. I’ll try for you. I’m not gonna bend to Sire’s will. I’m gonna do _whatever_ it takes. Whatever it takes to make him say your name again, Dead Mom.”

* * *

“Okay,” Starscream declared, clapping his hands together. “Today, you two learn how to be ghosts!”

Windblade and Chromia glanced at each other confusedly from where they were perched upon two of the chairs they’d stored in the attic vorn ago. “Aren’t we already ghosts, though?” Windblade asked him after a moment.

“Obviously,” he drawled demeaningly. “But you have to learn how to be _good_ ghosts. Right now, the two of you are painfully boring and aren’t going to get _anywhere.”_

“Hey!”

“Don’t you want to get these people out of your house?” Starscream asked, ignoring Chromia’s insulted outburst.

“Definitely,” Windblade said, laying her hand on Chromia’s arm to calm her before she said anything to annoy Starscream.

“Then you have to learn how to _scare_ them.”

“Can’t you just scare the people for us?”

Starscream snorted. “Windblade, I would _love_ that, there is nothing that would give me more pleasure than to kill the people downstairs-”

 _“Kill?”_ Chromia asked disbelievingly. “Hold on, we don’t want to kill _anybody.”_

“Figure of speech, Chromia, Primus, why do you have to be so sensitive?” Starscream muttered off-handedly before continuing. “Here’s the thing: I’m dead.” He paused before correcting himself, “I’m a demon. No matter what I do, _I_ cannot affect the world of the living, but the two of you _can._ Hence, you need to learn how to scare off the people trashing your house. So, what do you say?”

Chromia sighed. “Yeah, let’s do this.”

“Fantastic! Now, first things first: what’s the scariest thing you can imagine? Windblade, you first.”

“Um,” The jet mumbled, unprepared for the question. “I don’t know, scraplets?”

Starscream stared at her for a moment. “Right. Okay, then. Chromia, how about you?”

Chromia shrugged. “Getting mugged?”

“Primus,” Starscream muttered. “Okay, brutal truth-”

“As if you had a filter, to begin with,” Chromia murmured to Windblade, who simply bit her lip to prevent the amused grin that threatened to split her face.

“-you two are middle class, suburban, and polite. Thus, you have literally nothing about you that naturally scares people. All of that, however, changes tonight. Let's try something else: give me your best scary faces - now go.”

Windblade and Chromia glanced at each other before slowly making _painfully_ awkward faces. 

Chromia scowled and bared her denta, glaring at some indeterminable point over Starscream’s shoulder.

“Bigger.”

Windblade pulled her lips back and growled, holding her hands up as if to brandish claws that she clearly didn’t have. It might have been fine, had she not kept flicking her optics over to Chromia to see what she was doing.

“Further,” Starscream snapped.

Windblade opened her mouth further, in a half scream, half snarl.

“Not bad.” Starscream look between the two of them and sighed. “It’ll do, I guess. The surprise factor will hopefully make up for what you two clearly lack in skill.”

“Can you stop insulting us?” Windblade asked.

“Shut up. Now, before you can try and use scary faces on them, you gotta make them see you first,” Starscream continued, beginning to pace the length of the attic. “Make them realize that something strange and unusual is about. Go do something extreme, like severing a head - preferably someone you know-”

_“No!”_

Starscream groaned. “Stop being so _boring._ Primus, would it kill you to just put a little of that anger into a scare tactic? I’m trying to help you here - give you lessons, teach you skills, all the tips and trick of being dead, give you the instinct to kill-”

“Again,” Chromia said, exasperated already, “we don’t want to kill _anyone.”_

“Fine,” Starscream snapped. “But someway, somehow, you gotta _make_ them see you - I’m talking _jump scares,”_ he punctuated his statement by suddenly swiping his claws at Windblade, who leaped back with a startled screech, “the jerky ghost walk - whatever it takes to make them go _crazy,”_ he purred. “Raise the stakes by punching a sparkling or something, I don’t know-”

“We can’t punch a sparkling!” Windblade cried, aghast at the notion.

“Do something else then! Get in their heads and keep them up at night, and without sleep they’re bound to break, and soon, they’ll be quaking in fright!” Starscream suddenly snapped forward, grabbing them by the shoulders and shaking them as if to emphasize his point as he talked. “You two have gotta have some evil _somewhere_ deep down inside, so all you two boring mecha have to do is put all those farmers markets behind you, haunt ‘till it hurts, and give these mortals the fright of their lives!”

“The fright of their lives?” Chromia repeated slowly. She and Windblade shared an uncertain look. “We can certainly try, but I’m not sure how good we’ll be at it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Starscream said, waving it off. “All you need to do is make _them_ see _you,_ and then, while they’re still quaking in fear, you make them say _this.”_ And he handed them an old, beaten up looking card that only had three words on it, scratched out in harsh glyphs.

“This just says ‘Starscream, Starscream, Starscream,’” Chromia read, quirking her head in confusion.

“It’s your name, isn’t it?” Windblade asked a smile on her face at the realization.

“Bingo.”

“Well, why do we have to make them say it?” Chromia asked. “I’ve already said it a bunch of times.”

Starscream cycled his optics before slowly leaning toward her in a predatorial fashion. “Well, it doesn’t matter if _you_ say it, Chromia, they _have to BE_ **_ALIVE!”_ ** He pulled away, suddenly taking several steps back and continuing before either Chromia or Windblade could snap out of their shock. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to yell, it’s just - you just make me absolutely _furious.”_

“I…” Chromia trailed off, clenching the card in her hands as she stared at Starscream, Windblade pressed close to her side in comfort.

“Moving right past that,” Starscream continued. “Let’s start with the things that you hate.”

“Hate’s a bit of a strong word,” Chromia muttered, averting her optics.

“Perhaps when people are late?” Windblade tried, both of them carefully keeping their distance as Starscream paced.

“Or when there’s a scraplet infestation somewhere?” Chromia tried.

“No,” Starscream growled. “What fills you with _rage?”_

“When people abuse their pets,” Windblade said, a bit more firmly and confidently than before.

“When I have to spend all day working through corruption allegations because all the mecha in my department wouldn’t know ethics if it hit them in the face!”

“Other legislators trying to buy votes or getting their votes bought for stupid laws and they just go with it!”

“Or when-”

“Okay,” Starscream interrupted, not particularly interested in hearing more of their petty problems, “there’s lot’s there to use. Now, stand up straight, take a deep vent, and give me your best primal scream - channel all that anger into one loud shriek. Windblade, you first,” he called.

Windblade shifted on her pedes, glancing at Chromia before opening her mouth and- “Ahhh?” she said, sounding more like a soft question than anything actually _scary._ She kept fidgeting like someone was gonna call her weird for doing it, which Starscream didn’t really get. She was a _ghost,_ nobody cares!

Chromia, however, gave her conjunx an encouraging smile. Starscream huffed and turned her around before focusing his attention back in Windblade - he didn’t have time for them to be soft at each other. “Try it again,” he growled, “and maybe this time pretend like you _mean it.”_

“AHHHH!” Windblade went again, though it still sounded painfully flat.

“That was better!” Chromia called, looking over her shoulder.

“Really?” Windblade beamed.

Starscream groaned, taking a few steps to rest his head against the side of the attic. “I want freedom,” he muttered to himself. “But if I want to get my freedom, I need them to get a living mecha to say my name.”

“Starscream, Starscream, Starscream?” Windblade asked curiously, easily overhearing his musings.

Starscream continued talking to himself, ignoring her comment. “I know that beggars can’t be choosers, but do these two lovebirds have to be so deathly dull and lame? Even a tax attorney would have been better, someone with gravitas, with authority, and-”

“Excuse me, Mister Starscream,” Chromia called sharply, snapping him out of his monologue. He turned to look at her sharply, glaring as if to ask ‘What is it now?’ “We can kind of hear you, and would like it if you would stop insulting us for more than a klik at a time.”

“Yeah?” Starscream growled. “Well _that_ was a _soliloquy,_ so _you’re_ the one who’s being rude.” He huffed and gave the two of them one more once-over.

They were absolutely useless. He felt like he was getting growled at by cyber puppies. Now, if these two particular cyber puppies could try and be Cyberus, _then_ they’d be getting somewhere, but… “Yeah,” Starscream sighed decisively, striding for the attic door. “I can’t do this. Bye.”

“What?” Windblade asked, confused by the sudden shift in Starscream’s attitude. “You said you would help us!”

“I wanted to help you two,” Starscream said sharply, pausing and turning on his heel to face them. “It’s literally all I wanted, but the two of you are _helpless._ Here’s help,” he held up one hand, “here’s you,” he held up another, _“ssskkppp,”_ and he brought them together. “It’s less.”

“Well, what did you expect?” Windblade asked, putting her hands on her hips and leaning forward in a confrontational matter, clearly offended. “We’re not _like you-”_

 _“I know that,_ **_WINDBLADE!”_ ** Starscream shrieked. Chromia and Windblade reeled back, pulling themselves away from the sudden flare of _anger_ they could feel flowing through his EM field. He vented, unclenching his fists, wings dropping a few inches from their sharp ‘V’ position. “No one’s _‘like me,’_ that’s the _problem.”_ There was a moment of silence before Starscream huffed, turning again and heading for the attic door.

“So you’re just leaving?” Chromia asked, scowling. “We had a deal, and you’ve barely even tried-”

“Yes, Chromia!” Starscream snapped, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. “I’m leaving because this clearly isn’t working out. So goodbye, sayonara, don’t talk to me, don’t try to summon me, don’t even _think_ of me!” He jerked the door open and stepped through, turning his head to hiss at them. “See you in _hell!”_

And he left, slamming the door behind himself.

Chromia and Windblade stood in the middle of the attic, frozen.

The door to the attic creaked open again, however, and Starscream peaked his head through one last time.

“Hey, guys?” Starscream asked softly.

“Yeah?” Windblade returned stiltedly.

“Fuck you guys.”

And he left again.

Chromia growled, scuffing her pede as she kicked at the floor. “That aft needs _therapy,”_ she muttered. “He needs to go see a- a dead therapist, or something.”

“So now what?” Windblade asked listlessly. “We can’t just stay in the attic.”

“Well, what else can we do?” Chromia responded, falling back into the chair she and Windblade had occupied earlier. “There are people downstairs, and we clearly can’t scare them off - I didn’t even like people that much when we were _alive.”_

Chromia startled at a sharp ripping sound that shot through the attic, whipping around to see Windblade struggling to tear holes in some dusty old tarps.

“Windblade, aren’t those the guest sheets?” she asked, standing up again and striding over to observe what her conjunx was doing.

“That needy seeker was right,” Windblade huffed, handing one of the tarps to Chromia, who grabbed it clumsily as she worked on the other. “If we want our house back, we need to fight for it.”

“But how? Nobody can see us anymore-”

 _“We’re ghosts, dammit!”_ Windblade cried, shaking the newly torn sheet in her hand angrily. “We can haunt this house however we want. We don’t need his demeaning lessons to be scary.”

“Windblade…” Chromia murmured, smiling fondly.

“We’re dead, so we might as well walk through some walls,” she smiled, shrugging. “I’m sure we can haunt our own home, so we need to _try._ We’re ready as we’ll ever get.”

“I guess I’d need to get out of my comfort zone to do that,” Chromia laughed, pecking Windblade on the lips, who giggled into her mouth in turn.

“We can rattle chains!” she cheered as she pulled away. “Like in the movies! And- I don’t know, wail and groan until they go!”

“Sounds fun,” Chromia said, smiling as she pulled the sheet over her head.

“The holes are so we can see, and while we’re invisible,” Windblade said, copying Chromia’s motions, “these tarps _aren’t,_ so it’ll look like they’re floating!”

“It’ll look strange and unusual,” Chromia chuckled.

“And it’ll scare them so bad that they’ll leave, or maybe it’ll get them to see us so we can explain to them why they can’t stay!” Windblade jumped up and down, settling the sheets over her wings, making her look far larger and intimidating than she actually was. “Ready to take the next step?” she asked, holding her hand out to Chromia.

“With you? Always,” Chromia murmured, reaching out and lacing her cold fingers with Windblade’s. “Let’s get to work.”

* * *

“What’re you doing?” Drift asked, tilting his head as Hot Rod squinted at him through a rectangle he made with his fingers.

“Just capturing your essence,” Hot Rod said. “Making sure I’ll be able to remember you when you’re gone.”

“What?” Drift knelt down next to Hot Rod. “What’re you talking about?” He laughed lightly as he asked the question, attempting to lighten the mood from the mechling’s consistently sour deposition. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I had a vision.”

“Really?” Drift asked, finials perking up slightly as he grinned. “That’s great! I had a vision once, I was trapped in this hot apartment with the doors locked from the outside-”

“Yeah, well in my vision,” Hot Rod interrupted, gesturing vaguely as he talked, “me and my sire are back in Iacon.” He sighed wistfully. “Everything goes back to the way it was - you don’t exist.”

Drift took a moment responding, taking a deep vent before he started. “Hot Rod, I know I’m paid to help you, but I’d like us to try and be real friends,” he offered, a small smile on his lips. “How about that?”

“The shadows and the darkness are the only friends I have now,” Hot Rod said blankly, staring up at the ceiling. “All alone, except for the demons and ghosts in my head.”

Drift stared at him for a long moment after he said that. “Well, that’s depressing,” he responded in a forcibly cheery tone. “You know, it’s like my mentor Wing always used to say, ‘Why listen to the demon on your shoulder when all they can do is lie? Listen to the angel the other way and find yourself in happiness, instead.’”

Hot Rod turned his head slowly to give Drift a long, dead look.

Drift averted his optics, moving to dig around in his subspace instead. “How about this,” he said, pulling out a few cans of bright red and yellow paints. “I went out and got you some new paints for your sire’s business dinner.” He smiled brightly as he set them on the floor between himself and Hot Rod. “Look! These colors say ‘I’m warm, I’m happy, and I think about death only a normal amount!’”

“I prefer black,” Hot Rod said sharply, glaring at the bright cans.

“Yes, well,” Drift started, “black reminds me of a funeral! This is a business dinner.”

“It could be both,” Hot Rod said, lifting his hand in a mocking toast, talking in a soft, lilting tone. “A toast to my sire and his all-important business. Also,” he continued, his voice suddenly taking on a harsh gravelly quality, “one of your engex glasses is _POISONED!”_

“Hot Rod, no!” Drift cried, snapping forward and grabbing the imaginary glass out of Hot Rod’s hand, whipping it towards the floor. “Smash!”

Hot Rod simply lowered his hand, giving a Drift a scathingly condescending look.

Drift sighed, settling back into his previously more neutral sitting position. “Hot Rod, right now you’re redirecting anger and deflecting pain and-” Hot Rod cycled his optics, “-other terms. Look, what I’m trying to say is that maybe you need a new perspective.”

Hot Rod groaned, flopping onto his back. Drift sighed - not the best reaction he could have gotten, but at least he wasn’t trying to make some move to escape like he usually did.

“How about this,” Drift tried, “think of the universe as a friend that you can just talk to. Now, the universe won’t always give you answers to your questions, but like anything else, you can't doubt that it has its reasons. You can ask it, ‘Why is this happening to me?’ And the universe will simply say, ‘You’re on right track. I’ve got you, I’m helping you grow!’”

Hot Rod cycled his optics again.

“Try and think a bit more positively!” Drift grinned. “You dictate the hand that the universe deals, Hot Rod. Your reality is simply your perception, so you just need to look at it in a different light! Everything happens for a reason.”

“I hate to break it to you,” Hot Rod snapped, suddenly sitting up straight and turning to glare at Drift. “The universe is just the contents of time, matter, and space, right?”

“Yeah,” he answered.

“It’s ninety-one billion light years across, and out of all of that, Cybertron is comparatively _tiny,_ and it’s a place where good people die-”

“No-”

“Yeah,” Hot Rod countered, glowering at the Spectralist, “in famine and war. Kaon is rioting, Polyhex is starving, and I really think that _‘negative thinking’_ is hardly the cause. You just go and prance around because you have nothing better to do. Positivity is a luxury few can afford,” he hissed. “We’re gonna die, meaningless and alone.”

“No, we’re _not,”_ Drift snapped suddenly. Hot Rod rebooted his optics and flinched, taken aback by the sudden and rare show of agitation from one who was usually so peppy. “Think about it like this,” he continued, a forced smile on his face. “One day, you might wake up alone.”

“Okay?”

“Because you had to join a gang to get out of your horrible living situation, but the corrupt law enforcement ended up killing all your friends even when they all had their hands up above their heads peacefully.”

“That’s specific.”

“So you cry yourself to sleep because there’s no one there, talking to walls because you’re losing your mind, and you end up adopting a cyberhound because that’s your last chance to have a family-”

“Is this still about me?”

“-take it from me,” Drift said, the smile on his face twitching oddly. “At that point, you’ll have to believe that _everything_ happens for a reason.”

“Sounds like terrible things can happen,” Hot Rod remarked dryly. “Because the universe is random.”

“Yes,” Drift chirped. “But it’s random for a reason!”

“Randomness, by definition, doesn’t really have any reason Drift. The world just sucks, and you know it.”

Drift sighed, suddenly slouching as if his strings were cut. After a moment he stood up. “I think that’s enough for tonight,” he muttered. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Hot Rod.”

Drift left his room quietly. Hot Rod cycled his optics.

 _‘Random for a reason,’_ was probably the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. If he had to put up with one more-

_“Leave… this… house…”_

Hot Rod shot up, tilting his head as he tried to pinpoint the direction the sound had come from.

_“Leave this house!”_

The hallway! He burst out of his room, barely stopping himself from slamming into the opposite wall as he caught sight of two bright tarps at the other end of the dark hallway.

 _“Leave this-_ what the heck have they done to our house?” one of them muttered suddenly, pausing to turn towards the wall.

“Sweetspark, that’s not really what we should be focusing on right now,” the other one said.

“I know, but look at these colors-”

“Excuse me,” Hot Rod interrupted, taking a few careful steps closer as the two entities whipped towards him. “Are you two… ghosts?”

They both froze, seeming to glance at each other in a panic.

Hot Rod felt a crazed grin cross his face. “This house is haunted,” he said, a feeling of awe filling him.

The ghosts jerked at the statement, glancing at each other before bolting off.

Hot Rod bounced in place, a feeling of excitement filling him. He grinned up at the ceiling. “Dead Mom, I asked you for a sign. Is this it?” He barely paused for a response before he shot off in the direction he’d seen the two ghosts go. “Wait up! I just wanna talk to you!”

* * *

“Oh, Primus, that was a disaster,” Chromia muttered as she and Windblade burst back into the attic. “We just completely froze once we finally came across someone, and when they spoke to us we ran.”

“It’s not the end of the world,” Windblade said soothingly. “We have the rest of our li- afterlives to do this, there’s no rush.”

The door to the attic suddenly slammed shut again, and the conjunxes spun around to see the mechling they’d run into in the hall standing there, holding his hands up peacefully.

“Greetings, ghosts,” he began. “My name is Hot Rod of Iacon, do not be afraid.”

“Why aren’t you afraid of us?” Windblade asked.

Hot Rod gave them an odd look, tilting his hand as he said matter-of-factly, “‘Cause you’re not scary?”

Windblade and Chromia groaned.

“Unless,” Hot Rod said, grinning, “you’re horribly disfigured - is that why you’re wearing sheets? Can I see?” he asked, taking a few steps closer.

The conjunxes shared a look and shrugged, pulling the dusty old tarps off their bodies and smiling sheepishly at the youngling’s disappointed look. “Sorry,” Windblade said, rolling up the sheets and tossing them to the side. “I’m Windblade, this is Chromia,” she gestured to her partner, Hot Rod’s optics following the movement easily. “We- _used_ to live here.”

“I’m confused,” Chromia said, cutting in. “You can see us without the tarps,” she noted, watching the way Hot Rod’s optics actually tracked their movements instead of following their voices. “We were told that living mecha ignore the strange and unusual.”

Hot Rod gave them a blank look, responding in a flat, toneless voice he usually reserved for his sire and Drift. “Perhaps that is because I, myself, am strange and unusual.”

“You seem like a normal young mech to me,” Windblade offered softly.

Hot Rod averted his optics from them, staring darkly down at the floor.

Chromia sighed. “Listen, since you can see us, I’ll get right to the point. Would you mind leaving and never coming back?”

“Chromia!”

“What?” Chromia asked. “I don’t mean him, just his family.”

“Oh, yeah,” Hot Rod muttered. “My family. We got a sire, a creation, and…” he wrinkled his olfactory ridge distastefully as he thought, waving a hand dismissively, “Drift.”

“What about your carrier?” Windblade asked interestedly. “Are they…”

She tapered off at the sudden and brief anguish that flickered across Hot Rod’s face and through his field.

“She died.”

“Oh, Primus,” Windblade whispered. “Hot Rod, I’m so sorry.”

Hot Rod took a sharp, shuddering vent, nodding awkwardly. “Me too,” he said quietly, tilting his head up to look at the attic, a small smile wiggling its way onto his face. “She’d _love_ this! I mean, real ghosts?” He giggled to himself, spinning around as his optics searched the room restlessly. “We used to make all these haunted houses together, but in summer, so no one was expecting it, and Mom was the ghost of _Solus Prime!”_ He grinned wildly. “I thought she was _terrifying!_ But no one else knew who she was! People just don’t read anymore. Oh, oh, and sometimes I’d get to pretend to be a ghost if she caught me while we were playing this game she loved - Run From A Murderer, where she’d chase me and if I got caught, I got to be a ghost with a bunch of powers trying to exact my revenge for a while and-” he cut himself off, the smile tapering off his face. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to bore you talking about my mom.”

“We don’t mind,” Windblade said, giving Hot Rod a comforting grin as he sat down on the floor. The two conjunxes settled down across from him.

“Really?” Hot Rod asked them, almost disbelievingly. “My sire never wants to talk about her - it’s like it’s against the law in this house.”

“Well, I don’t see any cops around here,” Chromia smiled.

“That was awful,” Windblade said, giggling.

“Nah, that was adorable,” Hot Rod said. “It was like the perfect dad joke.”

“Oh?” Chromia grinned, bopping Hot Rod’s nose playfully as he batted her hand away, trying to suppress a smile. “I got a lot more of them ready to go since I never got to use them while-” she stuttered slightly, her voice tapering off with her sentence, “-while we were alive.”

Windblade gripped Chromia’s hand, giving her a soft, comforting smile.

Hot Rod sighed. “I really like you guys,” he mused. “This is like the first nice moment I’ve had since I got here.”

“Well, this is the first nice thing we’ve had since we _died,”_ Windblade laughed awkwardly. “So…”

“I don’t really have any friends,” Hot Rod muttered. “I guess even if living in this stupid house sucks, it’ll be nice knowing you two are in the attic.”

“This house isn’t stupid,” Chromia said sullenly. “You’re sire’s making some stupid choices with the interior design - I mean, you can’t make _every_ wall an absent wall and-”

“Chromia, that’s not why he doesn’t like it here,” Windblade reprimanded, cutting her conjunx off.

“I know,” Chromia murmured. “But it’s not helping.”

Hot Rod suddenly shot up, optics brightening as a thoughtful look crossed his face. “Maybe we can help each other…”

“What do you mean?”

“You guys want your house back, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what I want too,” Hot Rod said, a smile growing on his face as he seemed to form a plan. “So let’s scare my sire. Once he realizes this place is haunted, we’ll have to leave.”

“But we’re invisible,” Windblade pointed out. “Your sire can’t see us.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t supposed to be able to see you either, was I?” Chromia and Windblade shared a look - he wasn’t really _wrong…_ “Together we can _make_ him see. Come on, us invisibles have to stick together!”

“Windblade?” Chromia asked, looking to her conjunx for agreement.

“Let’s do it,” she said, smiling determinedly.

* * *

“I worry about Hot Rod,” Optimus said quietly. Drift startled at the sudden restart of the conversation, having almost allowed himself to be lulled into recharge.

“I’m trying my best to connect with him, but I just-” he started.

“It’s not just you,” Optimus told him reassuringly, laying his hand over Drift’s own in an attempt at comfort. “It’s both of us, I think. Hot Rod needs stability, and here we are, sneaking around like two mechlings at a Primalist congregation picnic.”

There was a slight pause, and Drift’s optics flared and panic shot through his EM field, startling Optimus. “Wait, are you breaking up with me?” he asked suddenly. “Is that what this is leading up to?”

“Drift-”

“Oh, Primus, Hot Rod was right!” Drift wailed, standing up and beginning to pace the length of Optimus’ room, wringing his hands together. “Why does this always happen to me? Every single time I feel like I belong, it’s ‘Goodbye Drift,’ ‘You’re out of the gang, Drift,’ ‘Dai Atlas doesn’t need more disciples, Drift.’” He turned and strode shakily towards the door, vents rattling.

“Drift, wait!” Optimus called, shooting up to follow Drift, who paused at his words, hand resting on the door frame. “I’m not good with… _feelings,_ you know this.” Drift turned around, staring at him with a broken hopeful look. “What I’m trying to say is, I hired you to help my creation, but you ended up helping _me._ We can’t _hide_ this anymore! Do you understand what I’m proposing?”

Drift paused, looked at Optimus for a long moment before shaking his head. “No.”

“I’m proposing!” he stated, fumbling through his subspace to pull out the jeweled pin he’d purchased earlier in the orn and presenting it.

“Oh my god,” Drift gasped, holding a hand to his mouth, shock replacing any distress that had been in his EM field prior.

Optimus rebooted his vocalizer. “Drift of Rodion,” he began stiltedly, “would you do me the honor of formally becoming my courtmate?”

Drift gave him a shaky smile as he tenderly took the pin and affixed it to his chassis. “Yes,” he whispered fervently, cupping Optimus’ face in his hands. “A hundred times, yes.” And he kissed him.

Any romance of the moment, however, was quickly shattered when Hot Rod’s shriek was heard just out in the hallway.

The two of them snapped apart, a sudden feeling of panic firing through both of them. “Hide!” Optimus hissed urgently. Drift nodded, seeming to understand that bursting in on them was no way to tell Hot Rod of their relationship.

Drift had barely managed to tuck himself under the crumpled thermal tarp on Optimus’ berth before Hot Rod burst into the room, slamming the door behind him as his fans struggled to cool his panicking frame.

“Sire!” he shouted frantically, running up to Optimus and grabbing at his arm. “There’s ghosts! They’re chasing me!”

Optimus stuttered for a moment - whatever he had expected the problem to be, it certainly wasn’t _ghosts._ “Hot Rod, what are you talking about?”

“This house, it’s haunted!” he wailed, leaning back theatrically before dashing to the other side of Optimus’ berth and gesturing dramatically at… empty space. “Do you see them?” he asked.

“What?” Optimus asked, glancing from the space that Hot Rod was gesturing at to his creation. “No? See what?”

“The ghosts! They’re in the room with us! They have scraplets! Scraplets for teeth! And their optics!” Hot Rod stumbled back, dragging his hands across his face as he howled dramatically, “They’re the optics of the _devil!”_

Optimus quickly made his way to his creation, unsure of what was going on and glancing at the empty space Hot Rod claimed to house ghosts worriedly. Perhaps Hot Rod was doing worse than he had initially thought. “Hot Rod, I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me, but-”

“We have to go back to Iacon!” he cried, running right under Optimus’ arm. He grabbed the thermal tarp off his berth and began yanking it off, and Optimus could feel panic setting in. “Pack everything - you… have…” Hot Rod’s voice petered out to barely a whisper as he processed the guilty look of the mech on the berth before him. “Drift?”

The mech opened and closed his mouth a few times before smiling stiltedly and simply offering a quiet, “Hi.”

Hot Rod slowly turned back to face Optimus, who could almost feel himself whither under the blank stare he was given. “Sire,” he started. “What is Drift doing in your berth?”

Optimus vented softly, realizing that there wasn’t truly any way to talk around it or change the subject of conversation. “Hot Rod,” he began gently, “I have asked Drift to become my courtmate.”

“What?” Hot Rod asked quietly, voice low to the point where Optimus wasn’t even sure if it had actually been said or not. “Sire, no, _you can’t do that.”_

“Hot Rod, please,” he tried. “We need to try and move forward. Think of this as a good thing! You’ll have another parent around to rely on-”

 _“I HAVE A MOTHER!”_ Hot Rod snapped statically, cutting him off. He took a shaky vent before continuing, staring at Optimus pleadingly. “Sire, this house is _haunted,_ and if there are ghosts here that means that Mom might still be back in our old house-”

“Hot Rod,” Optimus interrupted, pulling himself away from his creation’s desperate grip to speak. “Tomorrow evening, Swindle will be here to have dinner with our family and I’d like us to _be_ a _family.”_

Hot Rod tore his gaze away from Optimus, staring at the ground, his vents making worrying sounds as his vocalizer clicked. Drift slid off the berth carefully, hurrying to Hot Rod’s side to try and comfort the mechling.

“Hot Rod,” he began gently, placing a hand on the younger’s shoulder, “I know you’re upset, but-” Hot Rod shrugged Drift’s hand off his shoulder, turning away sharply. Drift paused, taking a moment before attempting to continue. “Maybe this was meant to be?” he tried.

Hot Rod turned his helm to glare at Drift, almost making him flinch away with the most acidic and hateful look he’d ever seen, especially on one so young.

He stomped right past Drift and towards Optimus, pausing only long enough to spit one thing.

“I wish I was **_dead.”_ **

And he spun on his heel, leaving before either of them could say anything, slamming the door hard enough as he left that they could feel the slight tremors in the building.

Optimus fell back, sitting on his berth with a defeated slump.

“Optimus,” Drift began worriedly, sitting down next to him. “Maybe we should-”

“No,” Optimus said quietly. “He just needs more time.”

* * *

Starscream sighed, sagging against the tiles of the roof. Windblade and Chromia were absolutely _hopeless,_ and who knew how long it would be before he could meddle with the paperwork enough to section off some newly-deads to use again, if ever? Certainly not him.

Frag it all. Invisible. That’s what he was bound to be for the rest of his days. Invisible and alone.

A slight flash of blue optics caught his gaze before he could spiral himself into jumping town, and a quick glance gave him all he needed to know. One of the new inhabitants of the house, the young one who was in mourning paints all the time.

He had some sort of note in his hand, spoiler shaking as he dictated to himself what he was writing - hand trembling as it scratched out glyphs. Starscream cocked his head.

“By the time you read this,” the mechling said brokenly, “I, Hot Rod of Iacon, will be gone. There’s nothing for me here. I’m alone. Forsaken. _Invisible.”_ His vocalizer cracked on the last word.

Starscream hummed lowly. “That makes two of us,” he remarked, tilting his head back and offlining his optics.

A pause.

“Who the hell are _you?”_

Starscream jerked, onlining his optics and looking at the mechling sharply, who was also looking directly at _him._ “Can you see me?”

The youngling tilted his head confusedly, before answering. “Yeah? You look like a glitter bot who got confined to the pole because your voice makes you sound like a chain smoker who stuffs gravel into their vocalizer and you couldn’t pick up anyone because of it.”

Starscream frowned. “Okay, so you _can_ see me.”

That tiny groundling could see him. That _living_ tiny groundling could see him. He smirked. Perhaps his opportunities at this house weren’t as dashed as he had previously thought.

“So,” Starscream chirped, standing up and sauntering over, “living mech. What brings you up to the roof?”

“I’m gonna jump-”

 **_“NO!”_ ** The other looked at him, shocked by the sudden sound. Starscream ruffled his wings, rebooting his vocalizer before repeating in a far calmer tone, “I mean, _nooo.”_

The mechling looked at him in disbelief but didn’t seem to be making any move to continue on with his whole ‘jumping scheme,’ so Starscream plowed ahead. “Hey, listen, I’ve got an idea for you,” he pitched, scooting right up against the youngling, wing brushing against his spoiler. “How about instead of impaling yourself on that birdbath, why don’t you, oh, I don’t know, say my name three times?”

“What?”

“Don’t make me beg,” Starscream said, a note of hysteria already arising in his voice because he’d never been this close to being seen in his entire afterlife. “I mean, I will, I just don’t want to. Listen, I am sick and tired of being invisible, and you can change _all_ of that.”

“I can’t change anything,” the mechling said, backing away from Starscream. “That’s why I’m doing this.” He took a slight crouch as he turned back towards the edge of the roof, a look of grim determination settling on his face. “If I’m dead, then my sire’ll be _sorry-”_

“Woah!” Starscream exclaimed, throwing his arm between the mechling and the edge as the smaller jerked forward. “Hey, no he won’t, no he won’t. You’ll just be dead. And being dead _sucks._ Hey, listen to me,” he said sharply, getting the mechling to look towards his face instead of the drop just beyond the roof. “I get it. We’re not that different. You don’t like your sire, I don’t like my carrier. He’s a demon, and he doesn’t get me at all.”

“So?” the mechling asked dejectedly, gripping the note in his hands tighter. “We both have shitty creators. Then you get why I’m doing this.”

“Listen, Hot Rod, right?” Starscream guessed, continuing when the mechling nodded. “Maybe we can help each other out.” He smirked, wrapping an arm around Hot Rod’s shoulders and jerking him none too subtly away from the edge of the roof. “From the way it looks, you could use a buddy, and trust me, I’m probably the best friend you could have right now. The way I see it, it’s your sire that should be getting the boot, and you should be the one sticking around and killing him.”

“What?” Hot Rod asked, half-aghast half-confused.

“Nothing,” Starscream said, moving forward with his pitch before the other could think too deeply about anything. “So instead of offing yourself,” he snatched the note out of Hot Rod’s hands and set it on fire, tossing it off the roof before the mechling could make a grab for it, “why don’t we off your sire instead? We could exterminate, _assassinate-”_ he crowed, tearing his helm off his body to showcase his point.

 _“No!”_ Hot Rod shouted, turning away with an odd retching sound.

Starscream sighed and set his helm back onto his neck, connections reigniting almost instantly. “We can discuss the finer points later, but first you need to say my name.” He switched to Hot Rod’s other side, carefully keeping an eye on the youngling to make sure he wouldn’t try anything that could mess up his plan. “Go ahead and jump, but that won’t stop your sire from doing whatever he wants, but with _me?”_ Starscream examined his claws, allowing a prideful smirk to cross his face. “I like to consider myself a very solid, very powerful backup plan. I can make your sire suffer however you wish, and all you gotta do is say my name. Say my name, three times, and I can do _anything_ you want.”

“But I don’t know your name,” Hot Rod remarked blandly, giving Starscream an unimpressed look.

“Well, I can’t say it.”

“How about a game of charades?”

“We are _not_ playing charades,” Starscream said. “Playing a childish game to say my name is beyond demeaning, and I have a far quicker idea to get this across.”

“Oh, yeah? Impress me, O wise and mature one.”

Starscream ‘tch’d, but continued on, electing to ignore the backtalk. “Look at the night sky,” he said sharply, pointing up. Hot Rod cycled his optics but did as he was told. “What do you see a lot of?”

“Emptiness?”

“No.”

“Stars?”

“That but singular-”

“Star?”

“Yes,” Starscream smirked. “That’s part one down. Part two: Synonym of yell.”

“Shriek?”

“No.”

“Shout?”

“No.”

“Howl?”

_“No.”_

“Scream?”

“Yes!”

“Starscream?”

He smirked as he felt the sharp tug on his undead spark that came when a living mech spoke his name. “Exactly. And all you gotta do is say my name three times - three times in a row it must be spoken, unbroken. Ready?”

Hot Rod gave him an amused look, which while not horribly reassuring, spoke far better for Starscream’s immediate future than the dead optic’d look the youngling had earlier. “Yeah.”

“Okay, go.”

“Starscream…”

“Yes,” he purred, the pull on his being feeling borderline euphoric after vorn of nothing.

_“Starscream…”_

_“Yesss…”_ The air around them became thick and heavy as Starscream could feel the power of a summoning build within him, a crackling energy snapping across his plating as he slowly became corporeal.

 _“Star-”_ he felt the power build and build and _build_ to boiling point and- “-t thinking up some better pitches, you glitch.”

 _“What?”_ Starscream choked as the power suddenly evaporated, leaving an emptiness inside him that caused him to fall to his knees like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“You think you’re smart, a good salesman, and I’ll give you this, you know when to show up,” Hot Rod remarked stepping away from him. “I’ll think about your offer, sounds great, I’ll get back to you on it, but I prefer my chances down below,” he said, turning once more towards the edge of the roof.

Starscream dived forward to intercept him but froze in place when Hot Rod suddenly began speaking again instead of, well, _jumping._ “Starscream, Starscream-” the build of power within him was beyond tantalizing - like smelling a five-star meal after being starved for _millenia-_ “stamp out that enthusiasm because the last thing I need right now is a _demon_ making my life _harder._ I’m surrounded by scraplets, so I really don’t need a sparkeater to make things worse. Yes, life sucks, but _not_ that much.”

Starscream growled deep in his chassis and snapped his arm hand to grab Hot Rod, but the speedster danced out of his grip - luckily _away_ from the roof edge.

“Okay,” Hot Rod chirped, “Starscream, Starscream, stand back,” the build, snap, and drain of power was _infuriating-_ “and spare me the lecture.”

“Oh, come off it,” Starscream scoffed. “I’m _offering_ you a full-time demon - power beyond your wildest dreams at your side, who wouldn’t want some of that?”

“Are you any good?”

“You can bet on it, trust me.”

“But I just met you,” Hot Rod said coyly. “It’s a flattering offer, really, but-”

“Don’t you want to see your sire suffer?”

“I think I’d rather just _jump off-”_ Hot Rod snapped, lunging towards the edge.

 _“No!”_ Starscream shrieked, diving forward yet again to intercept the speedster.

“Starscream,” Hot Rod snarled, taking a few steps away from him - _and the edge_ \- “I may be suicidal, but I’m not going to summon a demon, it’s not as if I’ve _lost my mind.”_

“So,” Starscream growled, clambering back to his pedes, keeping himself carefully positioned between Hot Rod and the edge as he ruffled his wings, “playing hardball, huh?”

“Just want to make sure I know who I’m working with,” Hot Rod remarked dryly. “Got any references?”

“Hot Rod, there you are!” Both of the arguing parties snapped their heads at the sudden call to see Windblade and Chromia phasing through the window of the attic frantically.

“Are you alright?” Chromia asked worriedly as they both rushed to the mechling’s side.

“Windblade, Chromia, my old pals!” Starscream chirped, a smirk growing across his face.

“Hot Rod, get _away_ from him,” Windblade cautioned, placing her hand on his shoulder and trying to tug him away. “He’s dangerous, and I’m not really sure he’s stable either-”

Starscream huffed, glaring at the two before shooting his hand out and letting what power he _did_ have in the mortal plane flow through him. They didn’t want to play nice? Fine. He wouldn’t either.

Both suddenly jerked, optics going glassy and vacant as they stepped away from Hot Rod, beaming smiles forced across their faces. The mechling squeaked, suddenly glancing between the conjunxes and Starscream, clearly making the connection. _Clever kid._

“Starscream is sexy!” Chromia sang happily.

“Starscream is smart!” Windblade joined in, sounding every bit as peppy as her partner.

“Starscream is a graduate of the Iacon Academy of Science!”

“He can help you with whatever you need!”

“Our troubles all ended on the day that we hired him!”

“All you gotta do is say-”

 _“Starscream, Starscream, Starscream,”_ they ended in unison.

Starscream jerked his hand back, snapping the connection between himself and the two ghosts, who gasped and trembled as soon as his power drained out of them.

“What on Cybertron was that?” Windblade asked, staring at Starscream with a far more worried look than she had before.

“So _violating,”_ Chromia muttered, an angry glint in her optic as she glared at Starscream. He smirked. That anger would have been useful earlier, but luckily, he didn’t need it anymore.

“There you go,” he purred to Hot Rod, inspecting his claws with a satisfied look. “A couple of five-star reviews.”

 _“What was that?”_ Hot Rod asked carefully - it was perhaps the most genuinely shocked and maybe even _impressed_ reaction Starscream had gotten out of him their entire interaction. He smirked wider. Perhaps he should have gone for the big hits out of the gate, instead of kicking around trying to talk Hot Rod into an agreement.

“That was possession,” Starscream remarked proudly. “Any ghost could learn to do that in less than five minutes. Now just imagine what a _demon_ could-”

“Any ghost?” Hot Rod asked inquisitively. Starscream huffed at being cut off but answered the question regardless.

“Pretty much any ghost will do, sure.”

“Then Starscream,” Hot Rod started, a devious lilt to his smile that immediately set off alarms in Starscream’s head, “what do I need _you_ for?” he asked, glancing meaningfully at Windblade and Chromia.

“Whoa,” Starscream said haltingly as Hot Rod stepped away smugly, “whoa, whoa, whoa - hold up,” he snapped. “I’m your pal, Hot Rod. Those two are sweet and all, but I’m a demon straight from the pit.” Hot Rod stalked towards him, a dangerous glint in his optic. “I know I went a little hard on the sell,” Starscream said frantically, attempting to salvage the situation, “but we’re BFFFFs forever, right?”

Hot Rod planted his hand right over Starscream’s cockpit and _pushed_ \- and suddenly, roles were reversed, and Starscream was _falling._

Hot Rod didn’t let his optics follow the seeker down - the sharp _thud_ and _crack_ were enough for him to know Starscream wasn’t teleporting back up or trying any other wacky trick he might attempt to pull.

 _“Hot Rod!”_ He turned to see both Windblade and Chromia staring at him with a mixture of shock, disappointment, and worry.

“What?” he asked, crossing his arms. “He was already dead. Besides you heard what he said - _any_ ghost can do that possession stuff.”

“Are you talking about us?” Chromia asked worriedly. “Because we’d love to help but I don’t think we can do that - you’ve seen us try and scare people away.”

“But we’ll never know if we don’t try,” Windblade said softly, laying her hand on Chromia’s arm soothingly.

Chromia sighed, tilting her head to bump against Windblade’s crest softly. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“I always am.”

“No, you’re not.”

Windblade huffed and whacked Chromia lightly in reprimand, but smiled nonetheless and turned back to Hot Rod. “We’re in,” she stated. Chromia nodded in agreement.

“Great!” Hot Rod cheered, pumping his fist excitedly and hopping up and down in place. “We can prove that we don’t need some demon bossing us around, the three of us _alone_ can do anything!”

“Okay, so what’s the plan, smart guy?” Chromia asked, smiling at Hot Rod’s enthusiasm.

“My sire’s having a dinner party tomorrow night, and he’s having this big influential investor over - we possess them, and make them do wacky enough stuff that they _know_ this place is haunted, and we move out and leave this house alone for you two!”

“That… could certainly work,” Windblade remarked after mulling it over for a moment.

“Yes!” Hot Rod whooped, smiling mischievously. “Let’s get to work, team!”

* * *

Starscream barely had time to think before he found himself impaled on the birdbath he had been warning Hot Rod about just a few minutes earlier. He groaned weakly, staring at the sharp end pointing through his chassis. He could _feel_ the ghost of his spark pulsing around it. A stab like that would have killed anybody else. Getting off and fixing himself could take a while, even then.

Fragging Hot Rod. A little murderer, that one was.

Starscream huffed and braced himself against the edge of the birdbath. He had to get himself off before he could continue trying to coerce Hot Rod into summoning him. It was just about waiting for the right time.

He’d been waiting patiently for hundreds of millennia already, what was a few orn more?

* * *

“He’s here!” Optimus called up the stairs as he stepped away from the window, warily eyeing the gold and purple jeep that had just rolled up the street.

“Coming!” Drift responded, bouncing down the steps. “How does my polish look?” he asked, self-consciously adjusting the courting pin on his collar.

“You look lovely, Drift,” Optimus said, giving his courtmate a smile, which was readily returned. “Where’s Hot Rod?” he asked as the doorbell rang.

“He’s still locked in his room,” Drift said, sharp denta worrying his lip.

“There’s no time,” the convoy murmured. “We’ll just have to do this without him,” he decided as he opened the door.

“Optimus,” Swindle greeted happily as he walked through the doorway. “My favorite business associate, how are you?” he asked brightly, shaking his hand.

“I’m doing great, Swindle, thank you for asking,” he said, ushering the businessman further in. “I’m so glad you could make it - welcome to our model home! We designed it to reflect sophistication and-” Optimus cut himself off as a procession of stone-faced attorneys followed Swindle through the door. “You brought your legal team?”

“I’m rich, Optimus,” Swindle said as if it explained everything. “I never leave home without them!”

“Ah, yes,” he responded awkwardly, before shifting the conversation, leading Swindle into the dining room, where Drift waited. “Swindle, I’d like you to meet my courtmate, Drift of Rodion.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet a business partner of Optimus’,” Drift said pleasantly, shaking Swindle’s offered hand.

“Trust me, the pleasure’s all mine,” Swindle reassured, the grin never dropping from his face.

“Please, take a seat,” Drift offered politely, stepping back to Optimus’ side. “You and your, uh, friends.”

“Say, Optimus,” Swindle said offhandedly as he and his team of lawyers settled into their seats at the dining table. “Didn’t you have a creation?”

“Yes, Hot Rod,” Optimus confirmed, moving around to his seat at the head of the table as he talked. “He, uh, I’m afraid he won’t be joining us tonight,” he said apologetically. “He’s been having a hard time since-”

 _“Sire~”_ came a lilting voice from the stairway. “Oh, Sire, dear, did I hear dinner being called?” Hot Rod said in a floating, almost absent sort of voice as he skipped down the stairs, completely decked out in bright reds, yellows, and pinks - his color palette before all the mourning paint.

“Hot Rod!” Optimus said in surprise, rebooting his optics to ensure that he was seeing what he thought he was.

“Yes!” Drift cheered quietly under his breath, a bright smile on his face and pride in his field. “Life coaching, do the research, it works!”

“So sorry I’m late everybody,” Hot Rod apologized daintily as he floated into the dining room, allowing the lights of the room to shine off the mirror shine of his polish.

“Hot Rod,” Optimus muttered in wonder, “your paints…”

“Ah, Hot Rod,” Swindle greeted as he came around the table to the lone empty seat left. “What a stunning young mech you are - we were afraid you wouldn’t be joining us.”

Hot Rod gave the business mogul a tight, uncomfortable smile as he sat down next to him. “This is going to be such an interesting night!” he said, light tone cracking slightly. His vocalizer clicked as he rebooted it, focusing his gaze in on Drift as everybody settled into their seats at the table. “Uh, first, I think it’d be so wonderful if our newest family member made a toast,” he offered, smiling sweetly at the Spectralist.

Drift’s optics flared slightly in surprise. “Oh!” He laughed a little. “Oh, okay,” he said, smiling as he stood back up from his seat, holding his flute of engex delicately. “Thank you, future step-creation,” both their faces twisted slightly at the odd term before Drift continued. “Business friends,” he stated, “I have only known this amazing, amazing mech and his unique creation for a few quartexes. But, as my mentor Wing always says, **_DAAAAAAAAAAAY-O.”_ ** Drift jerked oddly, his voice dropping an octave on the sudden chant. He stumbled as the word ended, rebooting his optics confusedly.

“What’s going, Drift?” Hot Rod asked, hiding a smirk behind his hand as he spotted Chromia and Windblade’s thumbs up from where they were perched on the staircase. “You alright?"

Drift rebooted his vocalizer awkwardly. “Yes, I-” he laughed, attempting to wave it off. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what just happened, I meant to say,” Drift jerked back into the same odd position and, **_“ME SAY DAY, ME SAY DAY, ME SAY DAY, ME SAY DAY, ME SAY DAAAAY-OOOO.”_ ** Drift gasped sharply as he was released again, beginning to look worried.

“Drift?” Optimus started cautiously. “Are you okay? So you need to lie down or-”

“No!” Drift exclaimed, standing up straighter. “No, I’m fine, I just need to-” he jerked and- **_“DAYLIGHT COME AND ME WAN’ GO HOME.”_ ** Drift hiccupped, holding his throat in panic as control came back to himself once more. “What is happening to me?” he asked, panicked, voice rising slightly in pitch as he spoke.

“We’re sorry about this,” Optimus apologized, standing up and giving a reassuring smile to the amused Swindle. “On behalf of Drift and myself, I’d just like to say, **_WORK ALL NIGHT ON THE DRINK OF RUM!”_ ** he sang, jerking in the same way Drift had just moments prior.

Hot Rod smiled, listening as the music appeared in the background, peering over his shoulder to see that needle of gramophone had dropped right on cue. Chromia caught his optic and gave him a wink, waving her hand as she and Windblade proceeded to possess Swindle and his lawyers.

 **_“DAYLIGHT COME AND ME WAN’ GO HOME!”_ ** they all sang, giving each other panicked and confused looks. Hot Rod giggled, watching as Drift swiveled his hips awkwardly on the next line, pushing himself away from the table and retreating to the sides of the room to watch.

**_“STACK BANANA ‘TIL DE MORNIN’ COME!”_ **

**_“DAYLIGHT COME AND ME WAN’ GO HOME!”_ **

Hot Rod was full out cackling as he watched his sire clumsily grab a bowl filled with silver crackers, tossing them over the table of lawyers and an investor, holding to his chassis as he began to jerkily use it as a sort of drum.

**_“COME, MISTER TALLY MAN, TALLY ME BANANA! DAYLIGHT COME AND ME WAN’ GO HOME!”_ **

Hot Rod climbed onto the dining table laughing brightly as he saw the chaos that was wacky dancing of the room full of stuck up mecha. Swindle stood up slowly, waving his wrists in an odd dance time with Windblade’s directions as the room continued to sing.

**_“COME, MISTER TALLY MAN, TALLY ME BANANA! DAYLIGHT COME AND ME WAN’ GO HOME!”_ **

“Hot Rod,” Optimus called, breaking the possession just enough to look at the youngling, even as he continued to jerkily drum the bowl, the rest of the room slowly forming into an awkward conga line, “call emergency services- wait, why aren’t you dancing?”

“It’s like I told you, Sire,” Hot Rod responded, grinning wildly. “This house is haunted, and the ghosts who live here want you _out!”_

Optimus was suddenly thrown into the wall as Chromia snapped her wrist, the rest of the room continuing to sing in time with the old record. Hot Rod was particularly amused by Windblade’s move to animate the bowl of rust sticks into forming a hand, grabbing one of the lawyer’s faces and slamming it into the bowl.

 **_“LIFT SIX FOOT, SEVEN FOOT, EIGHT FOOT BUNCH! DAYLIGHT COME AND ME WAN’ GO HOME!”_ ** The room continued forming into it’s conga line, with Optimus at the head, drumming away at his bowl. **_“SIX FOOT, SEVEN FOOT, EIGHT FOOT BUNCH! DAYLIGHT COME AND ME WAN’ GO HOME!”_ **

“Swindle, I’m so sorry,” Optimus cried out as they were all suddenly thrust into a dance break, Drift in particular tripping over one of the disorientated lawyers and landing roughly on the floor. “Please forgive me, I-”

“Optimus, you glitch, don’t apologize! We’re gonna be rich!” Swindle cried happily. “I was never going to invest in your stupid gated community, we already have plenty of those! But a genuine haunted house?” He grinned wildly, throwing his hands in the air triumphantly. “It’s a gold mine!”

“No!” Hot Rod shouted, stamping his pede on the table as the mood of the room suddenly changed to something far more celebratory.

“Really?” Optimus asked in surprise as he helped Drift to his feet. “Drift, did you hear that? Buying this house was genius!” Drift laughed happily as Optimus twirled him out.

“You’re supposed to be scared!” Hot Rod tried to cry over the ruckus of the room.

“Hot Rod, we’re so sorry!” Chromia called apologetically, waving her arms wildly as she tried to keep hold of her weak grip on the several people she was possessing. “It didn’t work!”

“There’s still one thing that will stop him,” Hot Rod said determinedly, clenching his fist as he watched his sire twirl Drift in the living room, as the sudden and impromptu party began to take up more space.

“Hot Rod, no, you don’t know what will happen!” Windblade cried.

_“I CAN’T KEEP LIVING LIKE THIS! STARSCREAM!”_

“Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy,” Starscream purred as he slithered up from underneath the table, clambering up top to stand next to Hot Rod. The lights in the house flickered as the air became heavy and thick, an oppressive weight suddenly landing upon Hot Rod’s shoulders. “I am so glad you changed your mind - you’re never gonna regret this!” Starscream cheered, grinning wildly with a manic gleam in his optic as he surveyed the room, his gaze eventually landing and staying on Hot Rod.

“Starscream…”

“We are gonna make such a great team,” Starscream purred, ruffling his wings as his plating crackled with energy, the table bending slightly as his form began to gain weight. “Give me _just one more…”_

Time seemed to slow as Hot Rod glanced around, at the lawyers and Swindle still dancing under Chromia and Windblade’s wavering hold. At the two conjunxes as they gave him concerned looks, backing away slightly as Starscream smirked. At his sire and his courtmate, not even seeming to notice him, standing on the table with a demon at his side.

Fine.

If that’s how it was going to be.

**_“STARSCREAM!”_ **

The air seemed to snap and shatter, a feeling of raw _power_ flowing through the room.

Starscream let out a deep vent, swaying slightly as the record came to an end and silence filled the room.

_“It’s showtime.”_

The lights cut out, and the room was bathed in darkness.

Hot Rod could hear Starscream’s steps as he walked away, he noticed, realizing that he’d never heard Starscream make a sound, even with all the running and jumping around he did on the roof.

Suddenly spotlights, from a location Hot Rod Wasn't able to determine (but it didn’t really change the fact that the house didn’t _have_ spotlights, meaning Starscream must have conjured them from _somewhere),_ shone down, illuminating Starscream’s sleek form.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome!” he called, smashing a dinner plate on the ground to ensure everybody’s attention was on him, though Hot Rod didn’t get why - it wasn’t as if Starscream fulfilled any definition of ‘subtle’. The seeker smirked. “Can everybody _see me?”_ he purred.

There was a beat of silence before someone began to scream, setting off the entire room. The rest of the lights returned as the spotlights faded away, Starscream tilting his head back. “God, I missed that sound,” he sighed, seeming to revel in the chaos.

“You wouldn’t listen, Sire” Hot Rod shouted at Optimus as he hopped down from the table, placing himself firmly at Starscream’s side as the demon glanced at him. Optimus looked taken aback at the sudden situation, Drift’s hand gripped tightly in his own. “This is what you get!”

“Yeah, Sire,” Starscream growled at the convoy, looming behind Hot Rod as a dangerous shadow, “this is what you get!” And he snapped his fingers, sparks flaring from them as the light fixture above the dinner table exploded.

“Starscream, stop!” Windblade cried.

“Get burnt!” Starscream snarled, sending a blast of fire at the conjunxes, sending them retreating up the stairs.

“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for!” Starscream called over the chaos of the house, drawing general attention back to himself. “Step right up, and play a game I like to call: _RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!”_ He cackled, suddenly beginning to grow _bigger,_ his form filling up the room.

There was a potent, silent pause of terror.

 _“RUN!”_ Swindle cried, shooting for the door. Suddenly, the occupants of the house were scrambling away as Starscream swiped and batted at them, laughing as the tiny shrieking little figures scrambled for the door.

Starscream shrieked in laughter as he shrank back down, chasing the last two mecha in the house - Optimus and Drift.

“Hot Rod!” Optimus cried desperately as Starscream stalked towards him, crowding him towards the door with a feral grin on his features.

Hot Rod cast a disinterested gaze upon him, turning away as Starscream giggled.

The seeker swept his arms up and _pushed,_ a sharp, invisible force sending the convoy and his courtmate shooting out the front entrance, screaming.

The door slammed shut, a deadbolt locking in place.

“He’s really gone,” Hot Rod breathed in disbelief, stumbling to Starscream’s side.

“Oh yeah,” the demon smirked. “It’s our house now, kid. _Hyah!”_ he cried, flicking his hands out in sharp movement, the mess of dinner party disappearing as the house rearranged itself - blank, grey walls turning red and blue, boring paintings becoming brutal depictions of old legends, the molding on the walls gaining a decorative, metallic red and gold flame pattern. Stiff leather furniture turned into plush, royal looking chairs and couches, minimalist tables turning into intricately carved surfaces.

All in a matter of moments, it was a completely different house.

“Woah,” Hot Rod said dizzily, having spun around, trying to track the changes, spoiler bumping into Starscream’s wing.

“Looks like we’re not invisible _anymore!”_ Starscream crowed triumphantly, laughing as Hot Rod hugged him. “Ha!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> starscream u dramatic bitch
> 
> I'm hoping to have the second half finished and up at some point in June, so stay tuned for that!
> 
> In the meantime, come watch me talk about this AU on my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/crimsonseekers), and thank you for reading the first half of my Starscream is Beetlejuice AU!


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